Hoping for a Tail Wind

I awaken, still never having the pleasure of molesting an alligator. A life not yet fully realized, I guess. It’s a chill morning here in Pioneer Park. Not like the vibe, the temperature. It’s like 59° and after 12 days down here I’m in danger of having my Western New York privileges revoked for stating the above. A lot like I’m Butch hearing from Marcellus Wallace (after having literally saved his ass): “When you gone, you stay gone, or you be gone”.

So what now? I’ll tel you what now. I kinda hate myself for being cold right now. I have to get moving, especially if I wanna pull off a successful advanced remote sleep. I am Jack’s thin skinned tropical sensitivity. I punch myself a few times, exactly the way Edward Norton does in that office — before he realizes he’s Tyler Durden. Tyler Durden. Tyler Durden. Only a Fight Club reference could follow one from Pulp Fiction. Finally, I pull myself together. More accurately, I put on my designer camo adidas sweatpants. Yeah. Adidas doesn’t pay me (they should); yet damn do I pay them. These are definitely the most comfortable, stylish and expensive pants I’ve ever worn. Serio. My entire life. And they weren’t cheap. I’m not gonna take a photo of them, I rocked them on the plane ride down to Fort Myers you can look it up. I’d never think of bringing these on a bike-camping adventure. These are a bit heavy and definitely cotton as fuck. Not what I normally look for. Plus usually gear gets worn hard. These situations test the limits of durability, craftsmanship and design. They’re only here because they fill out the pack cube with my raincoat and towel very nicely to make a camp pillow. Yeah I said it. I rest my head on them. Now, I’m wearing them. And fuck it I’m happy I brought them. And damn I bet I’m the best dressed motherfucker in all of Hardee County right now.

I emerge out of the penthouse and it’s wonderful. Campground coffee for just the second time, I check the nearest baños and they are closed for repair. Realizing I’ve taken zero wild poops so far… so you can bet your bottom dollar on what comes next. A little walk. A little dig. A loots wet wipes. Naturally in nature. The real au naturale. Me human, not dead yet. Ten minutes later and I’m five minutes late on dodging the park manager. Damnit. Even with all the white pickup trucks in this state, I recognize him straight away as he’s pulling around. My designer pants can’t save me. He looks like a Kevin. “G’mornin”. “G’mornin”. “I think I owe you fifteen dollars”, to which Kevins simply replies, “sixteen thirty five”. I have exact change and get a receipt. If I hadn’t left that message, I’d have probably gotten away with. The Advanced in advanced remote sleep means it costs nothing. It’s not about the money… it’s the principality of it, Smokey. Paradise lost, I eat a cookie and break the fuck out.

Timespace rolls on and on and one. More rural backroads through citrus farmland. More winds out of the west and I alternate between south and west. For 1/2 mile I go east and I’m reminded what a tailwind feels like. Weather and route are almost carbon copies of yesterday. I’m avoiding any place with more than 1,000 people in it. Out on the road, all I see are motorcyclists. No commercial trucks on this route for sure. Where’s all the personal vehicles? Ah. I turn a bend and see a flood of cars parked, it’s like Noah level flood. It’s Sunday. Baptist churches abound and everyone’s inside getting their delusional existential rationalization on. Opiates for the masses, I’m glad that at least it’s not the pharmaceutical kind killing everyone. Thank the spoke gods for that and the reduced traffic. Many of the motorcyclists wave. Some of them, and that’s usual. They wanna be called bikers. The long distance easy riders types are cool as fuck and usually have valuable info — because they are out there. You can tell them apart the same way I don’t look like a coordinated spandex superhero riding a feather. Pretty much 100% of them wave. It’s a low hand out sort of wave. They give it to each other and they give to me. I love chatting with them at stops too. Still not calling them bikers though. Not with that motor.

More farms. All farms. Petra does the damn thing whether shoulder or none. Currently there is no shoulder. She puts herself out there to protect me and I can’t thank her enough. My love for Petra is undying is eternal, and I hope she’ll join me on every long ride from here on out. I’m pretty sure humans can’t marry pool noodles in Florida yet, otherwise I might finally tie the knot, not.

I push into Port Charlotte and over a bridge in Punta Gorda. Fat Point? Whatevs. This is my first sizable population area in a few days and it’s comes with the yoozsh traffic. Oh hey, I’m back on the west coast of the state! I chill out for a bit, snack on a peanut butter banana burrito, contemplate the meaning of life. Nah not really, though I do let my mind wander a bit notice how awkward the idea of “guided meditation” is after days of riding, guiding my way along, staying deep in thought the whole while. Every other version of mediation seems silly now. Like how every sheltered table in the this little waterfront park is taken. Most of them with a cake and no people. There’s no shade to be gotten. Fuck it I post up and snooze near the restrooms. Quiet enough spot until it’s not.

I ride to the edge of town and take one last stop. I’m at Publix and I’m breaking the open container law and grabbing some quick and executional calories courtesy of Goose Island (nope they don’t pay me). Call the cops. I’m not normally an IPA fan, though the 9.9% ABV lures me in. Cause why not, what’s the worse that could happen. I push out, my return to Cape Coral now in sight.

This road is called Burnt Store. I have no idea what that means but it’s better than Highway 41. It’s a nice long stretch with a shoulder all the way to Cape Coral. I think. Five miles in… Fuck. There’s goes the shoulder. Even Petra is not into this two lane road moving where idiots think 55 mph is slowing down. I scranpble to find a reroute. There’s a strange picnic table chained to a sign in the middle of nothing else Not much options as I’m now bugging the Gulf of Mexico. Whaddya know. Durden Street. No sign of Brad or Edward.

I do however find Old Burnt Store road. It’s much quieter and has a bike lane. Science bless the old and…. Oh shit. Wu-Tang reference! Kills Hill 10304, you best to check ya neck.

I’m showered, shaved and emptying my fathers refrigerator at the moment. The loop takes 12 days and I’ve got a lot of thoughts about it. More to come. For now, I’m going to readjust to sleeping inside.

Bottom of the shift chat with Gustavo. He’s the engineer and paramedic. Really great guy. Educated. Married with kids and coming off a 48 hour shift. I’m surprised he even wants to chat with me, but he’s waiting on relief. Sitting around the lounge talking with him about the job. Even in Budapest, firefighters put the wet stuff on the hot stuff. Fire science. The same gig everywhere, mostly. Over some great coffee, we discuss the intricate differences between our workplaces. Basically our employers and our unions. They have a brand new station coming. The have two mandatory 24 hour shifts per month and are having trouble hiring people. The career isn’t as attractive and I soon find out it’s probably because they make less than I do. I already feel like I’m underpaid. Inflation is out of control. Rap is out of control. Wages been have been stagnant, mostly since right around the time I came to be alive on earth. Sorry not sorry. I didn’t do it. It ain’t my fault. So the firefighters at Polk County Fire have top of the line equipment, apparatus and houses. And also shit pay and what I consider a shitty schedule. No wonder they aren’t lining up to take the job. Gustavo says it’s also like this in orlando as well. He’s hopeful that they might get that 24/72 rotation that I have. I hope so too, because those guys deserve it. Tell a friend and tell a neighbor. Join or create a union wherever you work. If you’re retired or self employed, let your local government leaders know you support better pay and working conditions for the fire fighters that your tax dollar pay for.

My mind is wide open and relaxed. Thoughts arrive and I think on them and then they leave. I process and pedal. Mind and body both working congruently, at a scientific frequency in time with the living world and universe. It’s all so inexplicable and indescribable, so I’ll just say that this long ride shit is the cure. Not the band The Cure, an actual cure. Certainly the cure for my tendency to be pulled in many directions at once; a sanity refreshment. A mental rebirth. Probably the cure for the growing wave of ADHD. Maybe even peanut allergies. Definitely digital dependence. Pretty much everything everyone is getting. Attention here and now matters. Missing a turn can be costly. Doesn’t feel good at all, going back 5 miles or more. I can only measure time through space. Time isn’t real. Fight me about it. Timespace is the realest thing happening. It’s happening right now. It just happened and is still happening and is about to happen. Wrap your puny human brains around that. Through only the lens of distance can I tell how much time has passed. Pioneers of time measurement use the sun and it’s effect on a fixed space to measure time. There you go. I realize I didn’t take note of my mileage after a turn, I have no idea how much longer until the next turn. Only with both time and space considered can I be certain where and when I am and where and when I am going next. I make the next turn, there’s isn’t even a sign for what road I’m on. Get on this level.

A brief little route and wind update: it’s windy AF out of the west. Clear sunny day. Big same as yesterday. My route is not though. It’s turn after turn after turn through gridded out rural roads. Pythagoras would have a god damn brain aneurysm if he saw it. Zero hypotenuse available dude. Also, 90% of it is through farmland, citrus groves to be precise. I’m passing what must be millions of dollars in orange juice commodities. Looking good Billy Ray! Feeling good Louis. I stop and grab one. Not sure how ripe it is. Might give it a day or two. I catch a field worker harvesting. It’s straight ninja steez with their head to toe sun coverage and how quick they’re pulling fruits off the tree. Karate man cries in the inside.

I make it to Lake Wales. “Historic”, of course. I chill at he public park. Eat a snack. Cruise the lite downtown for signs of interest. I nice example of architecture and a nice example of street art. I move on.

“Historic” is baffling. People throw the label on everything they can. Historic cities and downtowns. Historic buildings and swaths of grass. I live in the historic Fruit Belt neighborhood. Just my neighborhood? The entire damn city up to North Street is historic. Isn’t each and everything that has ever happened at any time anywhere historic? It’s part of history. I sense false motives. Not to mention my timespace concerns. The entirety of the USA is a historic cemetery for millions of Native Americans. I could use the slave trade as another example if I need to. I don’t mean to rain on the rich (or “pretend rich” folks parades; just for cherry pic history and we’re good. And stop trying to make an extra dollar of throwing “historic” at the end of shit.

So yeah, looking at the map one might think I was going south and eat all day. Look again the map is not of the normal “north as up” variety. Adventure Cycling Association maps are oriented to maximize mileage per panel. It confuses some. I love it. So I’m going south and west most of the day. Which equals headwinds about half the time. Not too bad.

Peace River is, well, pretty peaceful. Nice break from farms and oranges. After 80 miles or so I arrive at Pioneer Park in Zolfo Springs, Hardee County, USA. Did Hardee’s pay for naming rights to the county? They’ve got tent sites and showers and don’t take reservations. The sign says vacancy but the office is closed. I call and no answer. I take a site on the water. I haven’t seen a single gator and so I figure this site is the most legit. Thoughts? Unfortunately, molesting alligators is prohibited, so I’ll have to control my animal instincts. The sun is setting so the pop up penthouse goes right alongside the water feature. I lay out the feast on my nearby picnic table.

A little about what I call tour gourmet before zonking out. I kept simple and effective. Thanks to my BFF and last year’s coast to coast compaction Damon, Lenny and Larry’s cookies has taken a spot on the menu away from pretty much any sort of cliff bar type thing. They are dope, I like the white chocolaty macadamia. Trail mix full of nuts and dried fruits all day or course. The peanut butter banana burrito has been my personal long ride go to since 2004. Quick ramen noodle has been a great addition for a few years too. For saltiness, I dig either Frito’s or plain old pork rinds. Whatever refreshingly cold and bubbly beverage I can find. That’s pretty much it. Easy and effective. Minimal effort or cleanup, maximize caloric nutrition. Oh also, electrolytes because you know — it’s what plants crave.

I knock out a PB-B-B and a bowl of Ramen and a bag of pork rinds and then I knock out myself in the tent, happy to be on a much quieter swath of earth for the night.